Tell me all the horrible
things you think but
never say.

Tell me why I can't be loved,
why I am as lonely as a
desert, why I
deserve to be.

Tell me that I'm the reason
my parents divorced, dad left,
mom shut down, sister
shut me out.

Tell me why 22 years
of running in place,
contrary to popular belief,
is not good
for the heart.

Tell me about all the moments
you really saw me, saw me sneeze,
saw my flaws, my hips, my rolls and
you ignored them, kindly, holding
onto the illusion of me.

Tell me that you
never wanted to **** me,
you just felt bad for me, a sympathy
**** with extra tongue
to boost
my self-esteem.

Tell me you don't love
me while you're still inside of me,
the moment in between our
first kiss and last.

Tell me we should just
be friends even though
we never, ever were.

Tell me to chill, relax,
be buds, tell me not
to disappear again.

Please, don't let me
disappear
again.

Four years ago I left in attempt
to get on with my life, in hopes it would
appear to the other human beings
that I had gotten on with my life, out of
fear that you'd discover that I
never really could
get on with my life.

Tell me, in an alternate universe,
we would be perfect together,
a bizarro dream-land with a beach
and a hammock on which we could waste
away the beautiful
imaginary
day.

Tell me you don't want me
to die anymore
in my sleep.

Tell me that life, although
meaningless, is still
worth living.